


Fuck Writer's Block

by Crownonymous



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 22:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13844445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crownonymous/pseuds/Crownonymous
Summary: In which the author tries to ward off the evil known as writer's block by doing short oneshots.





	1. Intro and Itinerary

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in that stage where I've hit the proverbial brick wall known as writer's block. It's that damn scene in SnK where the colossal titan looks down over the wall like I'm a fucking newborn ant with no chance of survival against the unfettered bullshit it poses. This is my attempt to fight off writer's block. Most of it will be random prompts I find on the internet, or crackfics, or me having an aneurysm in the middle of social interactions and write a quick fic instead of talking to people like a normal human being. This is purely for myself. Apologies in advance to anyone who reads this.

I don't think I know what itinerary actually means, but I'm too tired to give a shit. This will update as I go along. Don't judge me. I don't even know what fandoms I'm in anymore.

Chapter 1: Homestuck - DaveJohn  
Chapter 2: 50 One-word prompts


	2. Play The Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave, world-famous director and part-time music artist, muses about his childhood friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unbeta'd. Also not a happy ending. I don't how shit about adding colour to text

_ “You know the very moment that you met him you were doomed. _

_ Struck by cupid’s arrow and laid in your tomb.” _

 

That’s not right. You crumple the paper and toss it behind you. Briefly, you hear the thunk of it hitting all the other papers in the trash can. If it hadn’t already been filled with scrapped ideas two hours ago, it would have gone in. After tossing out lyric after lyric, failed drafts and just the terrible works you’ve done before, you’ve gotten good at aiming. LeBron ain’t got nothin on you. Can’t even hold a candle to your three-pointers. Candle got blown out a long time ago. NBA be crawling at your door and begging you to join a team. But you got no time for that. Full time director, screenwriter, and producer, not to mention part-time composer of some of the most illest beats this side of the 21st century. Call the ambulance, get the paramedics all up in here. There’s an epidemic of the Strider-brand of cool and it’s infecting the whole nation. Ladies are swooning, dudes are turning gay, non-binary folk be fannin their faces and cooing “Mr. Strider” at the top of their lungs.

 

Rapping was a fine way to pass the time, rediscover your roots, relive the better parts of your frankly terrible childhood. Even better, since it wasn’t your actual job, you can dish out gourmet BARs at your leisure. No pressure from the public or your manager. You have all the time in the world to get this done and polish it until it made the sun look dull. Yeah, you are going to hone your already godtier-levels of writing until it got so fine it cut people who simply listened to it.

 

Basketball can wait. For now, you pick up your pen again and start drafting a new song, hopefully better than the last. This was a personal piece for you.

 

_ “Up at night until the morning _

_ Cupid’s arrow hittin without warning _

_ So alarming _

_ Horns are blarin _

_ Police are being called in _

 

_ It’s a national crisis _

_ The spreading of a virus _

_ Onset of paralysis _

_ No need for analysis _

 

_ Go get me my license _

 

_ To mosey on by lookin hella fly _

_ Get me a glimpse of those gorgeous blue eyes _

_ Come on let me take a shot, I’mma try _

_ Show you why _

_ The laws of nature don’t apply _

_ To me _

_ We gonna party like it’s the Fourth of July _

_ Take you high _

_ Make your stomach flutter like a butterfly” _

 

There, that was better. The public won’t even have a clue what hit them. A semi shrouded in mystery and armoured with 100% bonafide Strider Swag, barrelling down the side of the street at mach 2 speeds, horns dysfunctional, brakes non-existent, just running down any unfortunate civilian crossing before it without a shred of mercy. This ain’t Overwatch yo. Mercy can’t save you now. People be tumbling down the street like bowling pins. Strike one yo, where my points at? There would have to be a national address. Mr. President, what can you tell us about such an unforeseen accident? Well my dear compatriot, it is obvious that the uncontained Strider swag was enough to cause a mass murder. It’s a massacre. Boston has nothing on this.

 

It was a great start to an undoubtedly magniloquent rap. Can’t wait for yet another award to grace your already sizeable collection of trophies. Bro would have been proud. Rest in pieces. Never come out of the grave.

 

Obviously such a work of art needed to be seen by none other than your best bro. So you boot up your computer and go on to good old Pesterchum. Feels like an eternity since you’ve used this. Shit’s have been so hectic lately and this was really just the only time you get to be away from the spotlight. But you always have time for John. Bros before hos. All that jazz.

 

Soon enough, you open the chat program and find John online. Thank the powers that be that he is. Before you could even get the first word in, he beats you to the punch, familiar blue text popping up on your screen.

 

**\--** **ectoBiologist [EB]** **began pestering** **turntechGodhead [TG]** **\--**

 

**EB: hey dave!**

**EB: it’s been a while since we last talked.**

**EB: how are you doing man?**

 

It’s so surreal, having conversations like these with him again. Since no one is around to realize that your poker face just about shattered into a thousand different pieces spread out across the world in the world’s most exhilarating scavenger hunt, you broke out into a grin and typed back.

 

**TG: you know how stupid you sound right**

**TG: the only people who say man**

**TG: are the hippies you find in small campsites in the forest**

**TG: singing kumbaya in offkey vocals and killing everything with functional auditory nerves within a fifty mile radius**

**TG: or you know**

**TG: creepy old dudes pretending to be hip**

**TG: beckoning kids over with huge grins on their faces**

**TG: shut up grandpa**

**TG: no one wants to know what you did back in nam**

 

For a while, John was silent. And then, out of nowhere, he sent you a videocall. Not having seen each other in so long and his first reaction was to send you a skype? Seems like you still got your Strider flare.

 

Obviously, you accept.

 

After letting him ring for a few seconds of course, can’t seem too eager.

 

God, you sound like a thirteen year old girl.

 

You splitscreen your computer monitor, pesterchum on the left, John’s face on the right. As you expected, his face was broken out into a huge grin. Since you now had an audience, you carefully school the poker face back onto your expression. Lady Gaga can use you as inspiration for her next music video. Hell, you can do a collab! Was she even still alive? That doesn’t matter right now.

 

“Nice to see you John,” you greeted. It sounded too bland, but John gestured to his ears and mouth. A new message popped up on Pesterchum.

 

**EB: my head phones are broken dave**

**EB: so is my mic.**

**EB: and my speakers too.**

**EB: haven’t had the money to buy new ones.**

**EB: no sound to or from me.**

**EB: and no you’re not getting me a new pair.**

**EB: i appreciate the offer dave but it’s just not fair to have you shower me in presents.**

 

So that’s the reason why he couldn’t answer you. You may not hear his voice, but at the very least, you can see his face. He definitely looks older, but he still somehow retained that vibrant youthful look to him. If you got swag, then John got unassailable youthfulness and energy. Like for real. Did he drink the fountain of youth or some shit?

 

John wore a plain white shirt and this tacky polka-dot apron over it. Bright pink. Judging by the splatters of batter over his visage, it was obvious that he was cooking. Maybe he brought his laptop to the kitchen so he can have an online cookbook or something. His hair was still the same black mess, sticking out in every direction. There were still glasses perched onto the bridge of his nose. And those eyes. God those eyes would kill you one day. Blue as the sky and as hypnotizing as the sea.

 

...you should write that line down somewhere in your rap.

 

Speaking of rap, you were reminded that you came here in the first place to tell him about your new work in progress.

 

**TG: why not**

**TG: you my best bro aint you**

**TG: who says that i cant throw presents at you whenever i so please**

**TG: where is the law**

**TG: where is my representation**

**TG: i demand a refund**

**TG: lemme go write up a declaration of independence from people who say i cant go shower my main man with gifts**

**TG: strider gift horse coming at you ten o clock egderp**

 

**EB: dave**

**EB: dave no.**

 

**TG: what**

**TG: cant handle condensed strider speeches so early in the morning**

 

**EB: its 2 in the afternoon.**

 

**TG: whatever**

**TG: anyway**

**TG: wanna see this sick rap i wrote**

 

**EB: really? When did you write it?**

 

**TG: just now**

**TG: lemme copy it**

 

Your hands fly over the keys as you copy down what you’ve written so far. Then you hit send. A huge block of text appeared on screen and you watch John momentarily step back, surprised. His eyes went wide and his head tilted back ever so slightly. Gods you miss him.

 

Since John was busy reading it, you had time and privacy to run your eyes over his features. It was the little things that got you hooked. The tiny, microscopic, minuscule details about him that entrance you. Remind you that you were enamoured with this man. Smitten. You’d never admit it to yourself or others (especially not to him) but it didn’t make it any less true.

 

Details like how he furrowed his brow when he was concentrating on something, or how his eyes glinted mischievously when he thought of something stupid. How his tongue pokes out his lips when he’s struggling at playing a videogame, or when he bites his lips if he’s nervous. Every time he laughs, his eyes crinkle around the edges and he turns his head ever so slightly to the side, shoulders shaking. Each time he’s amazed by some mundane piece of crap that honestly isn’t even that impressive, his lips form into an ‘o’ as he just stares in wonder. The way his ears would turn red when he’s embarrassed, and how he’d attempt to hide those slightly bucked teeth. Even from the way he simply held himself, his demeanor, pleasant and inviting and friendly and just so uniquely his.

 

Damn. You got it bad.

 

Despite all the ‘training’ Bro gave you, it couldn’t have prepared you for the hurricane that was John fucking Egbert. He pulled you under the water without even trying, latching onto you and tugging you deep beneath the waves until you crashed against the sea bed, drowning in such overwhelming affections you honestly felt sickened with yourself.

 

John is beautiful.

 

You wonder how John hasn’t noticed your feelings yet.

 

**EB: wow**

**EB: this is really good dave!**

**EB: it’s like you have a girl friend or some thing.**

**EB: wait.**

**EB: do you have a girl friend?**

 

A girlfriend? Bitch please. If John wasn’t looking at you through the screen, you would have scoffed. Oh. If only it were that simple.

 

**TG: nah**

**TG: aint no broad is gonna tie this stallion down**

**TG: gonna ride free n wild into the sunset**

 

On the monitor, you could see John rolling his eyes. He always wore his heart on his sleeve. Unlike you. He didn’t care if everyone knew what he was thinking, how he felt. No fucks given from him ever. Both a terrifying thought and a worthy cause for receiving the Strider medal of admiration. Yet another reason why he’s gripped you by the heart without even lifting a finger of effort. More accurately, another reason why you just tore your own ticker from your chest and lobbed it at him like a really gorey football. John kept it. And no matter how cliche this was, you didn’t want it back.

 

John’s eyes trailed down to his keyboard as he typed.

 

**EB: sure you don’t dave.**

**EB: but if any one should know what you’re getting up to**

**EB: it should be your best bro.**

**EB: i am your best bro though right?**

 

**TG: psssh no**

**TG: didnt i introduce you to greg**

**TG: new best bro right there**

**TG: real bro material**

**TG: gonna join him in holy brotrimony**

**TG: course you the winner of the bro of the year award**

**TG: who else would it be**

**TG: idiot**

 

Your shades kept John from knowing that you basically ended up just staring at him while you typed. By now, your fingers knew where each key was without you having to look at it like a dork. Like John. Who, even after all these years, is still a dork. A cute dork, but still a dork.

 

Again, John laughed at your little tirade, eyes crinkling as his shoulders shook. Some habits never changed. Before he could even type out a reply in response to you, he jumped slightly aback, eyes looking at something beyond the computer screen. He left the sight of the camera as he went to fetch whatever caught his attention. Probably the cake.

 

For exactly twenty-three minutes, you just sat in your seat, eyes darting to and from the screen behind your shades to see if John would decide to grace you with his presence once again. You have an excellent grasp on time. John, not so much, apparently. As he returned, those eyes of his looked downcast, a sky plagued by thunderstorms and you were immediately struck down by guilt, even if you didn’t do anything. Because you sure as hell did not do anything wrong in this scenario. John just up and left you and you were somehow feeling bad BECAUSE he felt bad.

 

No logic in that thought. But that doesn’t mean that you’re just going to let him be off and be upset.

 

**EB: forgot to tell you that the cake was finished.**

 

**TG: my bro dumped me for cake**

**TG: its cool**

**TG: just gotta hide the sniffles behind a handkerchief**

**TG: pretend its aight when it aint**

**TG: cry into my pillow in the night**

 

Seeing as you have no handkerchief to speak of, you improvise. In record time, you silently opened your desk drawer, pulled out a tissue from the box residing within it, and dabbed at your shades. Not even at your eyes to wipe away the pretend tears you don’t even have. Dry as a desert. But for the sake of comedic effect, you just mash that tissue against your shades as you would violently stab a cow.

 

**EB: i said i was sorry!**

**EB: drama queen.**

**EB: i just don’t want my house to burn down dave.**

 

The ridiculousness of it all made John laugh as he typed out his perfidious argument. Crisis averted!

 

**TG: right**

**TG: cause its so fancy**

**TG: decorated real nice**

**TG: like**

**TG: whats with the interior**

**TG: lookin real domestic right now**

**TG: did you input the motherlode cheat**

**TG: get all this fancy stuff**

**TG: or did jade sweep by with her sisterly instincts**

**TG: beautified the place up**

**TG: make it look like less a sty**

 

**EB: ha ha very funny dave.**

**EB: but no.**

**EB: is it so hard to believe that i decorate once in a while?**

 

Well, yes. But you ain’t gotta tell your bro that. Psyche, you definitely will. Decorating had never been on top of John’s priorities, and this was an anomaly which you would not put up with! It was always pranks and crappy movies and magic tricks and baking. Not decorating like a spring maiden. But before you could voice out such logical thoughts, John’s eyes widened, glancing down at the screen which what you assumed to be a clock.

 

**EB: oh man.**

**EB: sorry dave i gotta go!**

**EB: gonna be late for this thing!**

**EB: nice talking to you, we should catch up together sometime!**

 

**\--** **ectoBiologist [EB]** **ceased pestering** **turntechGodhead [TG]** **\--**

 

He giveth and he taketh away. You didn’t even manage to get a word in. Since messaging someone who isn’t even there is pointless, you shrug and just sign out yourself, closing the computer and allowing the silence to betide the room once again. No sounds apart from your breathing, and no company aside from your shadow.

 

With nothing else to do, you pick up your pen, ignored for the excitement and proceed to finish up your rap. The subject of which, is plainly obvious.

 

Two hours had passed. Your rap which you had shown John had been crumpled up and has found permanent residence in your desk drawer. It got too personal, too real, to be released into the world. What with you directly mentioning his name and all, he had to be such an imbecile that the measure of his idiocy exceeded the square area of Jupiter. While it was true that the object of your affections can make some questionable decisions in the department of logic, you doubt John would miss that hint.

 

With the rap in your desk and boredom nipping at your heels, you decide to open up your computer once again, return to technology, pretend to have meaningful social interactions with strangers in the internet.

 

Almost as if kismet herself was waiting for this very opportunity, mere seconds of you opening up a browser, using so many tabs that your screen was full, there was a soft ping from your computer, notifying you of a new status. You hunt down the tab and open it up. It was John, posting a new picture on Instagram.

 

With that new picture though, it should be InstaDAMN.

 

There was a scintillating smile on his face, fading the background into a blur as you were once again swept in. His eyes, bluer than anything you’ve ever seen and twice as brilliant, shone with unabashed joy. The fading sunset orange of the sun behind him made it seem like a halo surrounded his visage. But not the sun, nor the ring glinting around his finger, took your breath away quite as much as John himself. At how brilliant he looked.

 

“Big day is only a week away! So excited!” Read the caption on the bottom, followed by legions of his friends and family congratulating him.

 

Your name is Dave Strider. John Egbert is your best friend all the way from childhood. He also happened to be the one person you’ve ever loved.

 

You tried not to look at his fiancee as you closed the computer.


End file.
